


When it Rains, it Pours

by QueensJenn



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Family, Gen, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of Vomit, Nursemaid!Bilbo, SO MUCH Vomit, Sick!Thorin, Thorin Has a Bad Day, Vomit, sick!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueensJenn/pseuds/QueensJenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the hobbit_kink meme:</p><p> </p><p>"Prompt: "Thorin gets sick. Could be just a cold, or flu-level, or food poisoning type illness, or something, but Thorin gets sick and the company and Bilbo takes care of him."</p><p> </p><p>When Thorin is poisoned in Laketown, he finds out what the Company really thinks of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thorin Oakenshield was having a very bad day. A bad week, actually. Bad year. A whole bad life, one could argue, what with the dragon and all. But even the dragon paled in comparison to how miserable he felt at that moment. The Barrel Incident (as he was referring to it in his own mind, because if he neatly packaged it up under a single name it meant he would never have to think about it except in the abstract ever again) had succeeded, in that it had gotten them out of the Elvenking's halls and into Laketown.

It had also left him with one hell of a cold.

The inn in Laketown was crowded and noisy, and it was all he could do to sit at the table, eyes half closed, breathing through his mouth, fighting the tickle in his chest that threatened to become a full-blown coughing fit, and trying to tell himself that he didn't _really_ have razors in his throat, it only _felt_ that way.

Aye, miserable was a good word to describe it. Durin's Beard, but he hurt. Balin had quietly suggested that he not announce his presence just yet, and while the suggestion had at first enraged him, now he was forced to admit the wisdom in it. He certainly didn't look - or feel - like a king.

At least it was almost at an end. There was a soft bed waiting for him upstairs and, perhaps even better, a hot bath. He sighed involuntarily as he imagined himself sinking into the scalding hot water, letting it wash away the weeks of dirt and grime, chasing the chill and ache from his joints, clearing out his sinuses (which currently felt like they were about to explode), soothing the pounding in his head...

"Oh Mahal, yes..." he sighed, shivering in anticipation.

"Did you say something?" rumbled Dwalin, sitting by his side.

"No," Thorin said quickly. He straightened up, hoping that Dwalin hadn't noticed how Thorin was leaning against him to keep himself from toppling off his stool because the floor was looking like a _very_ appealing place for a nap right about now...

He mentally shook his head and opened his eyes, counting his Company. The action had become a familiar, soothing ritual over these past months. If he could keep track of 13 others, it boded well for his ability to look after an entire kingdom.

Oin and Gloin were sitting in the corner, the remains of meat pies in front of them, muttering to each other. Well, Oin was muttering, Gloin was shouting into his brother's ear trumpet.

Fili and Kili were in the other corner, flirting with every pretty maid who's eye they caught - which was just about every one. Thorin frowned. He'd have to keep an eye on that.

Bombur, for once, wasn't eating; but he was chatting with the barkeep - trading recipes, no doubt. Bofur was downing yet another glass of beer, and Bifur was methodically peeling strips of wallpaper off the wall and licking the backs of them. Right. Lovely.

Nori was deep in conversation with some of the locals, and Thorin could only hope to hell that he was gathering information and not trying to swindle them. They needed the goodwill of the people yet.

Ori and Dori were playing a board game, Dori daintily sipping tea as Balin looked on. Bilbo was finishing off the last of the oat cakes as he too watched the game, a slightly confused look on his face. Evidently, Ori was trying yet again to teach him how to play.

All accounted for, then. Good, good. He let his eyes slip closed again and fantasized about simply slipping away upstairs to bed. The Company was well provided for at the moment; they had a safe, warm place to sleep and plenty of food. Well, adequate food, at least. The inn hadn't been exactly prepared for 13 hungry dwarves and a hobbit to descend on it, and they were rapidly digging into their stores. But the food was decent, and everyone had had their share.

A serving girl placed a large plate of sausages down on the table in front of Thorin and Dwalin, and Thorin had to rethink his plan of stealing away when his stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he, in fact, had _not_ had his share yet - and that he hadn't actually eaten anything in about three days. With as much restraint as he could muster he tucked into the sausages, sorely tempted but resisting the urge to shovel them in as fast as possible, like Dwalin was doing beside him. He couldn't taste the damn things, on account of his nose being so blocked up, but they were hot and filling all the same.

Finally, the plate was empty and removed, and that seemed to be the signal for the Company that it was time to head to bed. Oin and Gloin were the first to go upstairs, followed by Dwalin. Next was Dori and Ori, then Bombur, dragging Bifur. Bofur finished the last of his beer a few minutes later and said his goodnights, following his kin. Nori saw him go and followed him, the two talking animatedly about something or other as they climbed the stairs.

Thorin knew he should go too. They would need an early start again tomorrow. But he found that he couldn't force himself to move. His stomach was churning painfully and the room seemed to waver and tilt whenever he opened his eyes. He tangled one hand in his braid and tugged gently, trying to distract himself from the sudden, and very insistent nausea.

Then all at once, his blocked sinuses cleared and he was assaulted with the full sense of the common room, with it's greasy, heavy food smells and the distinct odour of unwashed humans. He swallowed convulsively as he lost the battle and bolted to his feet. The hall to the privy was on the far side of the room, but the outside door was just to his left, and he had about 30 seconds before the choice would be taken out of his hands. The way was clear. He mustered all his dignity and walked quickly to the doorway, trying to look for all the world that he was just going out for a smoke.

Bilbo watched as Thorin made his way to the outside exit, tension and urgency apparent in his movements. He'd seen Thorin's face slowly drain of colour and take on a sickly greenish tint over the last quarter of an hour, so it was no surprise to Bilbo where he was headed. The hobbit paused. Undoubtedly Thorin would be humiliated to have anyone see him in that state, but on the other hand, who knew how sick he was? If he needed help...and there was his lovely hair to consider too...

That sealed it. Bilbo got up and followed Thorin out of doors. The sound of gasping and retching drew him around the back of the building, where he found the fallen king on his knees, forcibly expelling all that he'd eaten. Bilbo coughed slightly to alert him to his presence, then stepped up behind him and held his hair out of the way.

Thorin was too preoccupied to react, but when the spasm finally passed and he could sit back, he glared up at Bilbo, clearly asking _why did you follow me?_

"Are you all right now?" Bilbo asked, not taking the bait.

"Of course...no," Thorin said, doubling over once again. It seemed to go on longer this time; great hacking heaves that continued even after he was empty. Finally he sat back, his face pale, his lips bloodless. Bilbo could feel the heat radiating off him.

"You need to come inside," he said softly. "Can you stand?"

Thorin nodded and tried to get his feet under him, but the world tipped and wobbled dangerously and he was forced back down to his knees.

Bilbo knew he couldn't support Thorin's weight. "Stay here," he whispered, somehow uselessly since it was obvious Thorin wouldn't be going anywhere. "I'll be right back."

He hurried back around to the front and through the door, finding to his relief that Fili and Kili were still in the common room, and even appeared to be sober. He motioned to them and they came over, worry gracing their faces. Evidently they'd noticed Thorin's hasty exit as well. He led them around the back. Thorin was sitting with his back to the wall, head bowed. He'd been sick again. When he saw his two nephews he made a small sound of discomfort, but didn't have the strength to argue.

"We need to get him inside," Bilbo said softly. Now looking more worried than ever, the two princes helped their uncle to his feet and they slowly made their way inside. Thorin seemed to straighten up as they passed through the common room, his pride forcing him to appear not as deathly as he felt. But as they climbed the stairs his newfound burst of strength failed and he would have stumbled but for his nephews' tight hold on him. Finally they reached his room and got him settled into bed.

"What's wrong with him?" Kili whispered.

"Isn't it obvious?" Fili replied, his voice laced with fear. "Thorin has been poisoned!"

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

"Poisoned?" Bilbo said incredulously. "No, he has not been poisoned! He has a little tummy bug, is all. Hobbit children get them all the time."

The glare that Thorin gave Bilbo would have been withering if not for his present condition. "I do not," he ground out, "have a _tummy bug_. I am fine. Truly. You can leave now, because I'm -- _ohMahalI'mgoingtobesick_ \- "

Smoothly, Bilbo shoved the chipped chamber pot into his hands and Thorin tried to tamp down his shame and humiliation as he retched uselessly. It was better than fouling the bedclothes.

"Kili, go fill the washbasin with cool water. Cool, not cold, mind you!" Bilbo instructed. "Fili, go fetch Oin."

If the two princes bristled at being given orders, they didn't show it. They were out the door before Bilbo had even finished speaking.

Finally the spasm ended and Thorin sagged back against the headboard. He wanted to lash out, to do something to avenge his wounded pride, but he just didn't have the energy or will. He settled for glaring at Bilbo, like it was the hobbit's fault he felt so bad.

Bilbo frowned and pressed his hand to Thorin's face. "Oh, gracious you are hot," he muttered. "Don't fret. Oin will be here soon. Where is Kili?"

As if on command, Kili appeared in the doorway with the full washbasin. He set it on the table, then stood awkwardly. "Out," Bilbo ordered. He could practically feel Thorin's embarassment at being seen in such a condition. Kili hesitated. "Go," Bilbo said again. "I'll not have you catching it too!"

That got him in motion. With a look of near-panic on his face, Kili hurried away, nearly bumping into Oin. The healer was followed by Balin.

"No..." Thorin groaned softly when he saw the older Dwarf.

"What's this, now?" Oin asked, his voice over-loud. "The lads have run in shouting about poison!"

"It's not poison," Bilbo said. "He's just caught a touch of flu."

Oin gave him a look that said _who is the healer here_? and proceeded to examine Thorin, asking him several very personal questions and feeling his forehead and the pulse in his neck.

"Fever, rapid pulse, nausea, headache..." he muttered to himself, looking through his pouches.

"All the classic symptoms of a tummy bug," Bilbo said, sounding very pleased with himself.

"Please, stop saying tummy bug," Thorin muttered.

Oin pulled two tiny wrapped bundles out of his pouch. "For fever and pain," he said indicating one, "and to settle your stomach. Put a pinch of both in water and drink it down, no more than once every four hours mind you or it'll do more harm than good. Drink as much water as you can, and sleep as much as you can. It'll get worse before it gets better, I'm afraid."

Thorin wanted to groan in dismay, but he didn't have the energy. He simply closed his eyes, willing Oin and Balin and Bilbo and the entire world to just go away. It almost seemed to work - sounds seemed to fade away and he almost felt peaceful...until a wave of nausea broke over him and he barely had a chance to open his eyes before retching. His stomach was long past empty but it didn't matter; the spasms continued like they were going to rip him apart. Dimly he was aware of Bilbo rubbing his back in slow circles and murmuring encouragements, and a cool cloth against the back of his neck. He sat back against the headboard again when the heaving finally stopped, and closed his eyes.

"Thorin?"

"Mmm?" Words were too much effort.

"You really need to take some water."

He cracked his eyes open. The thought of putting anything into his stomach was nauseating, but he was painfully thirsty. Surely _water_ would be safe...

Bilbo handed the cup to Thorin, pretending he didn't notice how badly the king's hand shook as he reached out to take it. "Slowly," he instructed softly as Thorin tried to guzzle it. He took the cup back when it was empty, setting it on the side table. "Confounded elves," he said, half to himself. "Just because they can't get sick - they have no notion of cleanliness in their cells. It's a wonder we're not all sick! It's not poison, it's basic hygiene!"

Balin pursed his lips, hesitating for a minute. Then he he spoke. "You know, laddie...it is not common for dwarves to take ill like this. Not common at all. Practically unheard of, you might say."

Bilbo frowned. "What are you saying, exactly?"

"Thorin is the King under the Mountain, the lord of Erebor, the direct descendent of Durin the Deathless. And landless he may be at the moment, there are many among our people who would see him...deposed. He did not make this quest a secret among us - he has been making his intentions known for some years now. Most of our kin laughed it off as a suicide mission, but all know that if he should succeed, Thorin will be very, very rich and very, very powerful. If even a few who opposed him decided that they could not let this happen..."

Bilbo felt his blood run cold. Could it be? Could Fili and Kili be correct? He'd thought the two were simply being hysterical, but... "But Oin didn't...he didn't say, or do..."

The look in Balin's eyes told him all he needed to know. If it was poison, there was nothing Oin could do. He could try to keep the fever down, try to make Thorin more comfortable, but even if he knew what kind of poison had been used, the chances that he would have exactly the ingredients to make an antidote were extremely unlikely. Thorin would recover on his own...or he wouldn't.


	3. Chapter 3

Water, as it turned out, was not safe. It did, however, make it less painful to heave back up. 

Thorin had lost count of how long this had been going on. The blinds were drawn across the small window, but he could guess that it was dark outside. A few hours, perhaps.

Mahal, it felt like _days._ When Oin had given him the medicine, he'd been hopeful...only to discover that he couldn't keep it down long enough to work. 

"Thorin."

"Mmm."

"Drink, Thorin."

"No." He tried to turn his head away from the insistent cup at his lips, but Bilbo was having none of it.

"Yes, you have to."

"No point," Thorin muttered, but sipped at it anyway. He settled back against the headboard, closing his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. It came barely five minutes later. The only merciful thing was that the dry heaves had stopped, and the spasm ended as soon as he was empty again.

He sagged back against the headboard, almost automatically accepting the cup and taking a sip. At some point Bilbo had put his arms around him and let him rest his head on Bilbo's shoulder. It wasn't the most comfortable position, and the soft bed after months of sleeping on the ground was making his back ache. 

"I want to lie down," he muttered, shifting against the pillows.

"Not just yet," Bilbo said. "Not until you can keep something down."

"I want to lie down."

“No, Thorin. You could choke. Why, that happened to an uncle of mine! Old Boydo Bracegirdle - he could put a Dwarf to shame for his appetite, he could. Well, one day..."

Thorin began to drift. There was something oddly comforting about Bilbo's prattle, and the small hand that was stroking and smoothing his hair. He was so tired...

"...Daisy, as you can imagine, was about fit to be tied! At his own birthday party, she said!...”

As he listened, he could almost see them there, the hobbit lasses and the fat old Boydo, and his sons and daughters and nephews and cousins and...a soft life, one without fear and pain, where the only worry was whether your tomatoes would be prize-winners this year or not...

~~~

Fili looked over at Kili. He could barely see his brother's face in the darkness of the hallway outside Thorin's room, but he didn't need to see him to know that the frightened look on his face matched his own.

From inside they could hear coughing, retching, then the halfling encouraging Thorin to drink, just a little. It had been going on for hours, the same thing, over and over again. Thorin couldn't keep anything down, not even water...

Fili could still remember the first winter after Azanulbizar. He'd been young, and Kili younger, but was something neither of them would ever forget. A sickness had spread through their settlement in Ered Luin; brought back by the men returning from war. So many had died, especially the children and the elders. Dehydration had carried them off before they could begin to fight off the sickness itself. He could still remember the hastily-dug graves with their sad little markers. 

"I can't stand this," Kili whispered. "I have to do something."

Fili agreed, but what could they do? They weren't healers, or wizards, and they couldn't make things better.

"The antidote!" Fili said, snapping his fingers. "Maybe whoever did it left some clues!”

"Of course!" Kili grinned. "There's got to be some traces!" He frowned, deep in thought. "Who d'you suppose would want to poison Thorin?"

Kili thought too, then shrugged. "Dain's men, maybe? After all, if Thorin...if he...well, you know. Dain might think he could make a move on Erebor."

"But Dain doesn't want to take Erebor," Fili said. "That's why he wouldn't send help. And besides, I'm the heir!"

"Fili!" Kili hissed, moving over so he was seated in front of his brother. "That means they could be coming for you too!"

Fili was struck silent by this revelation. "Then we've got to figure this out," he said, sounding more confident than he felt.

"Right. So until then, don't eat or drink anything."

"Right." Fili stood up.

They were distracted by the sound of soft, shuffling feet coming down the passageway. Eyes wide, they shrank back into the shadows, ready to pounce on whoever was coming to disturb them...or finish the job on Thorin?

But it was only Ori, who jumped and squeaked as Fili and Kili materialized in front of them. 

"Ori! You scared the life out of me!" Kili sighed. The younger dwarf just stared at them, clearly having the same reaction. Then he shook his head.

"Has there been any more news?" Ori asked. "With the poisoning, and all."

Fili shook his head. "No. But we have a plan." They walked back down the hall to where the others were staying. Everyone had herded into the brothers Ri's room, and there they sat, waiting expectantly when Fili and Kili entered. 

"If it's poison, then there must be an antidote," Fili said.

"So all we've got to do is find the poison!" Kili finished.

"Right. So - Bombur, you and Bofur, go inspect the food supply," Fili ordered. "Dori, check out the wines and ales. Nori, you...well, you do whatever it is that you do." The less said about that, the better. "Oin, stay here in case they need you again." Fili's eyes widened as a thought came to him. "Gloin, stay with him and guard him. Just in case the poisoners decide to take out the healer."

Oin nodded grimly, but they could tell he was secretly pleased to be considered important enough to need a guard.

“Right, and Ori - stay here with them as well. Everyone can report their findings back to you," Fili said, "Well, go on, then. We don't know how much time we have!"

At those ominous words, the company cleared out of the room, leaving only Fili and Kili.

"You're good at this," Kili said admiringly. "Being a leader."

"Don't say that," Fili snapped. "I'm not good at this at all! I'm scared, Ki."  


Kili nodded. "I am too. But...we're going to find the poison. If anyone can do it, it's our Company. Besides...Balin and Bilbo are with him. They'll take care of him."

"Aye, you're right," Fili conceded. He only wished he felt more sure.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I angsted in this chapter. Sorry (not sorry).

“Thorin.” Bilbo shifted his shoulder a little, but there was no response, save for a slight hitching in Thorin’s breath, which quickly returned to soft snoring. He was well and truly asleep, and had been for the past hour - the longest time he’d managed to sleep without waking up to be sick.

“Thorin,” Bilbo tried again, giving him a slightly harder shake. This time, Thorin stirred and cracked open his eyes. He licked his lips and murmured something in Khuzdul that Bilbo couldn’t understand, although he swore he heard the word “Bracegirdle” in there somewhere.

“It’s been an hour,” Bilbo said softly. “Perhaps you’d like to lie down now?”

“Oh, Mahal, yes,” Thorin sighed, his eyes drooping closed once more.

“All right. Let’s try Oin’s powders once more, and then you can lie down.”

He made a face, but Bilbo was insistent, and soon the noxious-smelling potion was shoved into his hand. It was powerfully bitter and he clenched his jaw, willing himself not to gag. But Mahal be praised, it stayed down, and before long, Bilbo helped him to ease down under the covers.

Thorin had been raised since birth surrounded by the finest luxuries Erebor had to offer. But nothing, _nothing_ ever felt so good as the lumpy mattress and threadbare quilts. He closed his eyes and was out.

“Finally,” Bilbo murmured. He had begun to despair of Thorin ever feeling any better. “I think the worst of it is over.”

Balin gave him a sharp look, as if reminding him of the last time he’d said those words. But he nodded and sighed. “Aye, I’d imagine it is.”

“I was beginning to worry about him...you know, when he couldn’t even drink...” His eyes turned dark as he remembered Pansy Proudfoot’s little baby, who had caught a fever during the Long Winter, the way it had refused to nurse until finally...

He shook his head to clear that memory.

“I know, laddie,” Balin said. He hesitated a moment, then his hand reached out to brush a dark, sweat-dampened lock off Thorin’s face. “But Thorin is strong. He would not succumb to an illness like this. He wouldn’t _let_ himself. All the same...it is good that you were here. He wouldn’t allow any dwarf to fuss over him like this.”

“Save me from the stubbornness and pride of dwarves!” Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“It’s not stubbornness. And it’s not pride, not exactly.” Balin sighed, and his voice took on the tone that said he was choosing his words very carefully. “Thorin...has not had an easy life, even as a prince in Erebor. You see, laddie, a king’s true purpose is not to be served but to serve, and Thorin is more of a king than any dwarf alive. That need rules every part of his life, whether he realizes it or not.”

“So you’re saying…Thorin would have stayed sick, dehydrated, and possibly _dead_ in that alleyway, because he simply…didn’t want to put anyone out?”

“That’s why it is good you were here.”

“And if I wasn’t…?”

“Thorin is not stupid, and he is not so proud that he would not seek help if he thought he truly needed it. But this night would have been far more unpleasant for him.”

The night had been unpleasant enough. How much worse would it have to be? How sick would Thorin let himself get before seeking help, all because he didn’t want to trouble someone, because the purpose of a king was to serve, not be served, and somewhere along the way the young prince had taken that lesson far too much to heart.

Balin’s hand kept stroking through Thorin’s hair. The old Dwarf looked sad, with the sort of expression that said he was remembering Erebor.

“He’d die for every member of this Company, before he’d let them get even a scratch for him. He puts everyone before himself. You saw - he would not even let himself eat before everyone else had been fed.”

Bilbo Baggins had never felt in the least bit maternal. But in that moment he felt a powerful rush of protectiveness over Thorin, which was ridiculous because Thorin Oakenshield did not need anyone to protect him, except he _did_ because somewhere, sometime, long before any battle or any dragon, someone had beaten the self-worth out of him.

“Why don’t you go to bed,” Bilbo said softly, seeing for the first time how exhausted Balin looked. “I’ll stay with him.”

Balin hesitated, placing his hand on Thorin’s still-too-hot forehead. Thorin made a small noise of discomfort as the hair-stroking stopped, but did not wake.

“Go on,” Bilbo urged. “Go tell the others that Thorin isn’t dying, before they launch an all out offensive against Laketown.”

That brought a small smile to Balin’s face, and he stood. “Aye, I suppose that would be wise. Good night, Master Baggins.” _And thank you_ , his eyes seemed to say. He left the room, and shut the door quietly behind him.

~~~

Bilbo woke with a start, unaware that he’d even been dozing. He sat up straight in his chair, blinking, wondering what had woken him. The answer was obvious.

Thorin.

He was not awake, but neither was he sleeping with the same peace as before. He was cocooned in the blankets, one hand fisted in them and the other in his hair, the frown on his face only hinting at what he was seeing behind closed lids. Bilbo was hovering over him at once, shaking his shoulder gently and calling his name. But the nightmare was too strong, and he didn’t wake.

Bilbo shook him harder, wondering what on earth to do if he couldn’t rouse him. Oin was in the room just down the hall, but he was loathe to leave the sick dwarf by himself.

Fortunately, Thorin chose that moment to wake. There was a wild, frightened look in his blue eyes. “Fili!” he gasped. “Kili!”

“They’re fine,” Bilbo soothed, stroking his hair the way Balin had. It didn’t take a wizard to know what Thorin had been dreaming about. “They’re just fine. They’re safe.”

It took a few more moments, but finally, Thorin seemed to come back to himself. He closed his eyes, then forced them open again, as if afraid that if he fell back to sleep he would see Fili and Kili again, dead, arrows through their throats and Azog the Defiler standing over them, about to desecrate their corpses…

“Thorin, breathe,” Bilbo said softly. “Everything is fine.” He smoothed his hair back again, and checked his fever the way his mother had all those years ago, with a gentle kiss to the forehead. It was bold, terribly bold, but Thorin didn’t seem to mind.

“You’re burning up,” Bilbo said softly. Oin’s medicines hadn’t helped at all - if anything, Thorin was even hotter than before. “It’s too soon for any more of the medicine,” he said, and almost smiled at the visible look of relief on Thorin’s face. Bilbo retrieved the square rag from where it lay next to the full washbasin, and dipped it into the cool water. Returning to the bed, he lay the cloth on Thorin’s forehead. It wasn’t perfect, but it would help.

“You just can’t seem to shake this fever, can you?” Bilbo muttered sympathetically, and Thorin winced, as though the words hurt, as though Bilbo was somehow _blaming_ him for his illness. He looked away, unable to meet the Hobbit’s eyes.

“I…am sorry, for this weakness,” he whispered.

“Stop that,” Bilbo said firmly, stroking his hair once more. “This not your fault. At all. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“How could I fall to a children’t illness?” he wondered.

“Children’s illnesses often are far harder on adults,” Bilbo said sagely. “I could tell you some stories. Besides…Balin thinks you may have been poisoned.” He said the last part in a low voice, unsure if he should even say it, in case it upset him further.

But Thorin only shook his head. “It’s not poison. I didn’t sick up blood.”

Bilbo felt his body go cold. “You’ve been poisoned before?”

Thorin nodded. “Twice. Before the gold sickness took him, the easiest way to get to my grandfather was to threaten the life of his heir.”

“And…and after the gold sickness?”

There was a hard look in his blue eyes. “After the gold sickness…I recovered on my own.” He smiled wryly. “Do you think I was _born_ with such a bad sense of direction?”

And all at once, that protective sense came roaring back and Bilbo longed to just hold him in his arms and tell him it was all right, that nothing and no one would ever hurt him again. He squashed that down as hard as he could.

“All is well now,” he repeated. “Fili and Kili are fine, though they’re worried to dea—they’re very worried about you.” Thorin was muzzy enough that mentioning his nephews and death in the same sentence probably wasn’t a good idea.

“And the Company?”

“They are all well, though they too are worried about you.”

Thorin snorted. “Worried about their share of the gold, more like,” he said. “I harbour no illusions. If I should fall, another would take my place.”

“That’s not fair,” Bilbo said quietly, trying to remind himself that this was not Thorin, this was the fever speaking, this was the weight of hurts long past. “Every one of them would give their lives for you, and you know that. You _know_ that.”

Thorin looked away again, and the glassy gleam in his eyes had nothing to do with the fever. “I do,” he whispered. “And I can’t let that happen, Bilbo. I _can’t_. I won’t let that happen, I _can’t_!” His breathing was coming in short gasps, and he fought to tamp down the prickly sensation behind his eyes that was threatening to become real tears.

And this time, Bilbo did give in to his urge and simply held Thorin close, smoothing his hair and making comforting sounds until the moment passed and he lay back against the pillows, exhausted beyond words.

“You should sleep some more,” Bilbo said softly. “You’re still very sick. Sleep, and when you wake up, you will feel better.”

Even tired as he was, he hesitated, as though afraid the nightmares would return.

“Sleep,” Bilbo insisted. “I’ll stay.”

Without waiting for invitation, he clambered up on the bed and lay down beside Thorin, draping his hand loosely over his chest. And softy he began to hum, until Thorin’s eyes closed and his breathing became even and he slept.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo sorry for the lateness of this chapter. It was supposed to be done *weeks* ago, but I was embattled with final exams and papers and projects...ah, 4th year university...good times, good times.

“He’s so pale…he looks dead!” Ori.

“Ach, no, there’s never been a dead man that could snore like that!” Gloin.

“Shush! You’ll wake him!” Dori.

“No, no. The fever’s only just broken. He’ll sleep for some time yet.” Oin.

Thorin frowned as the voices trickled through the haze. He had the oddest feeling that they were discussing him. Resisting the urge to simply pass out again (a powerful urge, because he was _warm_ and _safe_ and deliciously _comfortable_ , and for the first time in a long time nothing hurt or ached or pulled) he opened his eyes.

Fili and Kili were sat at the end of the bed, one hand each on his blanket-covered feet. Ori and Dori crowded in next to them, Nori, Bifur, and Bofur behind them. Bombur stood to one side, a bowl in his hands. Oin stood closest to him, and Gloin beside him. Balin sat on the other side of the bed, next to Dwalin.Thorin swallowed uncomfortably, and tried to sit up -

\- Only to bite back a wince of pain as the muscles in his abdomen, having been abused all night long - protested vigorously. Finally succeeding in rising, he tried not to glare at his Company, who continued to regard him anxiously. The awkward silence grew.

“I’m fine,” he said at last.

Bofur cleared his throat, and Bombur started. The fat dwarf held out the bowl in his hands. Thorin took it cautiously, noting the appealing odour and the fact that he was growing more ravenous by the second.

“Chicken broth,” Bombur said quietly. “Me mum’s recipe. Always made us feel better, when we were little.”

Thorin nodded his thanks, a feeling he couldn’t quite describe washing over him. Grateful, yes, but something else, too. _Touched_. He cautiously took a sip, just in case his stomach decided to rebel, and then another and another. The soup tasted as good as it smelled, and though he was feeling quite sated by the time he got to the bottom of the bowl, he was slightly disappointed to have finished it as well. He handed the bowl back to Bombur, and sat back, wordlessly demanding to be filled in on all that he’d missed.

“We’ve been all over,” Fili said eagerly, sounding almost proud of himself. “We looked everywhere, and we found it! Well, Bombur did. The source of the poison!”

Thorin tried not to groan. “I was not poisoned, Fili!” he said.

“But you were!” Bombur said. “I had a look in the food stores in the basement - we’d nearly cleaned them out, of course, but then I found this!” From his pocket, he produced a…a…well, it may have been a sausage. At one point.

“They were all like that! How could you have eaten it, Thorin? It had hair on it! It was green!” Bombur sounded mortally offended.

Thorin felt like he might have turned a little green himself, in that moment. He swallowed convulsively and averted his eyes. “But Dwalin ate them as well,” he pointed out.

“Aye, and I had the shits all night!” Dwalin wailed. Ori nodded solemnly.

“It’s too bad we couldn’t have gotten more,” Kili said, a grin splitting his features. “Feed ‘em to Smaug and he’d keel right over!”

The room fell silent as everyone hoped that Kili was only making a joke. Sometimes it was hard to tell.

“Right, well, it gets better,” Fili said. “Nori?”

“I did some diggin’ around. Not like that-!” he said, seeing Thorin’s expression of dismay. “Just talking to people. There’s a lot of good will towards the Dwarves of Erebor. I didn’t tell them nothing about us, but just speaking in hypotheticals…I don’t think we’re going to have problems.”

And all at once, Thorin felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest. For so long, the world had been against them. To know that someone, anyone, even if it was just the men of Laketown, would support them was a rich and heady feeling. He swallowed.

“Thank you,” he said softly. The words didn’t come easily to him. “All of you. For…for everything.” Oh, but that was a terrible speech. _Thank you for coming on this suicide mission. Thank you for following me, for trusting me. Thank you for fighting at my side. For keeping me safe. For caring enough to turn the whole town upside-down to find an antidote, even if the poison was only a spoiled sausage._ All these words and more surged up inside him and threatened to come tumbling out, but he didn’t know how to say them so simply kept silent.Even still, his company seemed to hear them anyway.

The moment was broken as Dori pushed a steaming mug into his hands. Mint tea, he explained, to make sure Bombur’s soup stayed where it should. Thorin almost couldn’t hide his snort of laughter at that, but drank it down, even as around him, the company began to talk amongst themselves, spreading out to other parts of the room.

Gradually, the soup and tea did their jobs and Thorin found that he simply couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He drifted into a calm sleep, lulled by the voices of his companions.

~~~

Some hours later, Bilbo stood outside the door to Thorin’s room, and hesitantly pushed it open. The blinds were drawn now, letting in the warm late afternoon sun, washing over the twelve sleeping dwarrows inside. Most were curled up near the hearth, the fire burning low but warm.

Balin, Dori and Oin had opted for the three chairs in the corner. Bombur had settled himself in the prime location right in front of the grate, and was acting as a pillow to Bofur, Bifur and Nori. Ori was stretched out, cat-like, by Nori, his head resting on his older brother’s leg. Dwalin had taken advantage of the fact that the bed was Man-sized and sprawled himself across the foot. Fili and Kili had draped themselves over their uncle, one on each side, one arm each slung over his chest. Even in sleep they looked tired and oh-so-young, and Bilbo’s heart gave a little tug for them.

Thorin cracked open his eyes as Bilbo approached the bed. He looked down at his nephews, and for an instant, an unreadable expression flashed across his face; like he was remembering something long ago and far away, a different set of blond-and-brunette youngsters. Then he blinked, and turned to look at Bilbo.

“It appears I am not moving for awhile,” he said, his voice rough from sleep, but with an amused tone to it.

“They were worried about you,” Bilbo said, and he didn’t just mean Fili and Kili.

Thorin nodded. “I know. I spoke…foolishly, last night.”

“Oh hush. You weren’t yourself. Fever can make one say the strangest things. It happened to a cousin of mine…”

“Boydo Bracegirdle?” Thorin asked, eyebrow raised.

“No, he was my uncle.”

“Ah.” The small smile that crept across his face was mirrored on Bilbo’s own. He licked his lips. “Thank you,” he said hesitantly. “For…not letting me die last night.”

“You were in no danger of dying last night, Thorin,” Bilbo said fondly.

“Perhaps not…though I felt like I was.” He shook his head. “And for…staying.” _Caring_. “Even if I was a bit…ridiculous.” _Weak_.

“Thorin…of course I stayed. And please…everyone needs a good cry once in a while. It’s healthy. Cleans you out, as my mother used to say.”

“Indeed.” Thorin’s voice was warm.

Despite himself, Bilbo’s face split with a yawn, reminding him that yes, he had indeed been up nearly all night. Thorin gestured as best he could with his arm trapped under his nephew.

“Please. There is more than enough space for you as well.”

There certainly was. Bilbo wasn’t about to turn down that invitation. He clambered up onto the bed, twisting and shifting until he found a comfortable position sprawled between Thorin’s leg and Fili’s stomach.

A few minutes later, all that could be heard was quite snoring.

~~~

And for the rest of his life (a long, happy life with his companions ever by his side), Thorin Oakenshield never, _ever_ ate another sausage.

THE END.


End file.
